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Chief Thomas Fiddler
Editor’s note: This story is taken from the oral tradition of the Ojibwe, who didn’t have written records until the last hundred years or so. These stories have been passed down from generation to generation.
To the Ojibwe people of not too long ago, “Windigo” was a word that was not used in winter. When a native person was starving and had not eaten for many days, it became what they called “Windigo.”
The veil force of starvation in cold winter took over their mind and body. Once that happened, these Windigkahn, or Windigo, began killing and eating anyone near them. The people they see don’t appear to them as humans, but as animals that they had hunted for food.
One elder told me what had happened to him long ago one winter. He made a mistake and began the early stages of becoming a Windigkahn. He picked up a small ax to end his own life, but his friends and family took him to a medicine man who tried—but could not help him. He was then brought to a powerful old man, a healer. The healer used a strong, powerful medicine to clean his body, mind and soul. After that, he dreaded every winter, but it never happened to him again.
While she lived into her nineties, Liza Flat, the daughter of chief Mike Flatt, who carried a British flag and silver treaty medals, told me of a story her grandmother had told her. One winter in Grand Marais, when only about 100 people lived there, it became extremely cold for three days. All of the animals they hunted disappeared, and no birds could be seen or heard. Nobody dared to say the word “Windigo.”
One of the chiefs consulted with a medicine man and called for a meeting. He told the people that far to the north that one of the men had become Windigo. And across the border that possessed man had come through Whitefish Lake, the people’s wild rice lake. He was about ten miles away.
The next day, another meeting was called to discuss the Windigo, who was now only a few miles away from the village of Grand Portage. The people brought natural tobacco and gifts and cried out for help. No one wanted to take responsibility to go out and try to stop him. Finally, one wise old lady stood up and said, “I have lived a long life and love my people.” She knew that the Windigo must journey in a straight trail. This one, when coming to Kitchi kami, Lake Superior, would have to follow the shore.
The old lady took her cane and, carrying a small natural bag, walked in the woods on a trail on the north side of the village. She sat down and took out of her bag a small pipe and hatchet. She saw the Windigo approaching and quickly smoked her pipe. She sang the song she had dreamed when becoming a young lady and having what girls call their first moon. She sang and called out for help from the thunderbirds. A low, quiet thundering came from the south. This gave her courage, and she jumped up and struck the Windigo. He grabbed her and tried to choke her to death. With great strength from the thunders, she kept striking his head with her hatchet. The Windigo finally fell to the ground. The old lady barely could walk but made it back to the village. She told her people that she had killed the Windigo. That night she passed away. No one went to where the Windigo had died. In the spring, some of the men went there and saw that the animals had eaten the body. Nobody went back there for a long time.
From today, what we call Thunder Bay, to Basswood Lake, near Ely, Minnesota, a great chief named “Ejish pan oo” roamed about hunting and trapping. For a time he lived in our county. He lived from the 1700s to 1850—his family and heirs to this chieftainship signed with the United States government the 1854 Great Lake Treaty. In the wintertime, the people had to travel to wherever the game went. The caribou, moose, deer, rabbits, and partridge were the primary food they hunted for. One winter at Basswood Lake, it was such a terrible winter that a man had turned Windigo eating his entire family. And he was coming for others. Many people who had tried stopping a Windigo in the past had died trying. The Windigo has supernatural powers.
Ejish pan oo was trapping not far away, and the people raced to see him and begged for help. He fought the Windigo in a long fierce battle but finally won, killing the Windigo.
That story was written in an old book by author Janes R. Stevens, a Thunder Bay professor. He flew 700 miles to the north and recorded many stories. He and chief Thomas Fiddler tell how the long-ago village was scourged by a man turned Windigo who had killed and eaten many people. A young boy was found abandoned and raised by another family and became a powerful shaman. His name was Porcupine Standing Sideways.
The people of the village followed the wise medicine man. He called on his power and struck the Windigo to the ground. His helpers held the Windigo down while Porcupine Standing Sideways killed him. Many people were killed and eaten by the Windigo. Later, word got out to the white settlement of the killing. It was 1909, and the Canadian Mounted Police traveled far north and arrested Porcupine Standing Sideways, whose English name was Jack Fiddherr. Jack didn’t speak any English. He was arrested and taken to Winnipeg and jailed for many, many months. White people and some missionaries wrote to Ottawa and Winnipeg, asking that Jack Porcupine Standing Sideways be set free. The question posed to authorities was, what does law enforcement do when faced with a similar situation? Sadly, Porcupine Standing Sideways wasn’t released from jail, and he died many years later. The book “Killing the Shaman” was written about the incident, and people still talk about it.
In 1979 I came close to death that cannot be explained. Walter Caribou, a direct descendent of the 1854 chiefs and related closely to Chief Blackstone, was married to Ahma Rep Sky, whose family was from “Ka in Pi” north of Saganaga Lake. The same time I almost died, they had a son. They moved to Grand Portage, where one of Gilbert’s other sons was elected to a high position on the Grand Portage Tribal Council for many years. I spent countless hours listening in Ojibwe and English to their stories of the history of our wilderness.
As a child Walter Caribou and his two sisters were raised at Basswood Lake. They spoke no English as children. In late winter, his father and uncle had not seen or heard from another family who lived deep in the woods, miles away. That family had eight children. When they went to check on them, they saw raw bones all over near a fire, and they knew the children had been eaten. In the woods, they heard a sound and saw a man and his wife hiding behind a tree; they had eaten part of their hair and fingers. The couple raced quickly back into the bush dwelling. Walter’s mother was told to throw the kids in the canoe and put a blanket over them. Walter’s dad grabbed his old rifle and quickly loaded it with shells. They heard a sound behind a tree, and they saw a Windigo and his wife. When the awful-looking man charged them, his dad shot the Windigo. His wife screamed and ran into the bush. Walter and his sisters were told not to look, but they did. Their father and others threw the Windigo into the fire and covered him with logs. They thought he was dead, but he was not dead. His dad shot him again. Walter’s sisters were crying. As the man’s body began to burn, a great ice chunk from his chest began to dissolve. Many, many years later, Walter went back to that spot, and nothing had grown where they had burned the Windigo. My brother Jack Blackwell tells of Walter Caribous’ stories in his book “Boundary Waters Boy.” The gun used to kill the Windigo was kept in Grand Portage.
Now, let’s get back to Cook County. When I would stay with the elders across Gunflint Lake, I would ask them about Windigo stories, and they would never answer me. When dark, they always closed their curtains. They were still scared of the Windigo. This was the early 1970s.
Walter Caribou’s story took place in about 1910.
North of Saganaga Lake Ano Ka ni pi, Ron Geezhik (Sky) was a teenager, winter trapping with his father Bob Geezhik, who was a powerful medicine man who spoke no English. As they were walking in the woods near the shoreline of a lake, Ron’s dad stopped and knelt for a few minutes and said nothing. No birds were singing, and no sounds of any animals were heard. Soon they saw a young man with no snowshoes walking towards them. He had no mittens on. The old medicine man began singing the dream song of his powers. Ron, who had fasted as a boy before reaching puberty, asked his dad if he could help. “No,” said his father. “Stay here. The Windigo man made a straight line towards them. Ron’s dad called on his “Misabe” powers to spiritually turn into a giant. The old man knocked down the Windigo onto the snow. He told his son to throw him a rope from his packsack. He had grabbed a pole and repeatedly hit the Windigo, knocking him out. They tied him up, his legs, his wrists. Then they threw balsam boughs all over him and covered him with snow. After that they snowshoed for hours to their trapping shack, drank some hot tea and then walked through the darkness far away to the only resort that was located deep in the wilderness. Ron could speak some English, and he told the people what had happened. They called the Ontario Provincial Police, who the next day flew out to the place where the Windigo man was, but nothing was left but the ropes and the tracks of the Windigo running away.
When Ron, an old man, died, I did his traditional funeral, always remembering stories he had told me. There are many mysteries in the Northland and Cook County has always held many untold stories that I hope to bring to you.
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